


Keeping Secrets

by alexa_davenport



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-11
Updated: 2012-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-07 12:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexa_davenport/pseuds/alexa_davenport
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds out something he'd rather not know and has trouble keeping it from Sherlock. Summary makes it sound serious. It is not serious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> Quick Mystrade thing I wrote ages ago that actually didn't end up featuring much Mycroft, OH WELL.

“Mate. Hey. Mate. Greg. Greg! Oi! Mate. Fucks sake! GREG!”  
John Watson was getting irate. He'd asked Greg round for beers and conversation – which meant bitching about Sherlock, but nobody needed to know that – and all he'd done was stare at his phone, stare out the window, stare into space. John Watson, well, he'd had enough.   
“OW! The fuck was that for?” Greg Lestrade removed the cushion from his face, displaying the newly formed scowl that it had both created and hidden.   
“Stop looking at your phone! I thought you loved Doctor Who!”John violently gestured to the television as a Dalek exterminated a housewife. Greg looked at the screen briefly, his attention straying quickly back to his phone. John hurled another cushion at him, offended that his friend would rather stare at sterile words on a small screen than what was, in John's opinion, the greatest battle in fictional history.   
“Stop bloody doing that!”  
“Stop bloody looking at your phone!”  
“Or what?” Greg raised a challenging eyebrow, tightening the grip on his phone until his knuckles flashed white under the hollow lights of 221B.   
“Or I'll keep chucking cushions at you,” John grinned slightly at the consequence he had decided upon. To most it would seem like the pacifist option, but then most people haven't felt the sting of a cushion thrown by John Watson. Greg, however, had felt this sting. Indecision crossed his features as he glanced quickly between the cushions on the sofa and the phone in his hand. John smirked, confident that his threat had dissuaded Greg from the constant, slightly feverish glances at the darkening screen. However, mere minutes later, Greg's eyes were on his phone once more, darting over the glowing surface as his fingers tapped quickly across the keys, often hesitating and deleting, always pausing before hitting send.   
“Who're you texting?”  
Greg peered up and his eyes flashed quickly. His hand subconsciously slid over the screen, shielding the words from John, although he was too far away from the phone to distinguish them from a blur.   
“Nobody.”  
John shot him a curious look. You didn't have to be Sherlock to figure out that it obviously wasn't just “nobody.” He didn't want to pry, but...well, he wanted to pry. As Greg returned to his phone, slumped in the chair, John rose to his feet and headed past him to the kitchen.   
“Just going to get another beer, back in a second.”   
Greg glanced up, straining his neck up the back of the tattered armchair to keep John in view.   
“Alright. Wait, mate, you haven't fi-OI!”  
John laughed insanely and darted behind the sofa, the phone in his grasp. He had reached down and snatched it quickly, leaving Greg no time to take it back before running to the opposite side of the room. Greg leapt to his feet.  
“John. Give it back. Now.” Greg was panicked, John could see he dare not move through fear that John might do something. John looked back at him. He considered returning the phone, but then remembered the infuriating silence and the click of the keys.   
“No. Stop bloody texting! I'm going to text this nobody and tell them to piss off, Doctor Who is more important,” John gave a military nod, cementing his opinion firmly. Greg took a tentative step towards him and reached out his hand. John grinned at the look on his face; he was jumpy. John glanced down at the phone and began scrolling towards the texts icon. Greg's eyes widened.  
“John, seriously. Stop. Oh my God. John!”  
Greg vaulted over the sofa and tackled John to the floor, wrestling the phone from his hand with difficulty, struggling against his limbs. He stood up quickly and backed away, grinning at his phone with satisfaction. John looked up from the floor, his face slack.   
“MYCROFT!?”  
Greg's face fell as John scrambled to his feet.   
“Wh-wha...HOW?! This, Greg,...WHY?! I...WHAT?!”  
Greg looked at him rather sheepishly and twisted his mobile around in his hands, passing it quickly as he spoke.  
“You're not really making a lot of sense there John.”  
John glared at him quickly.   
“Can you blame me? Mycroft, Greg. Mycroft. You. And Mycroft. It...WHAT EVEN... How long has this..?”  
Greg smirked briefly, his face quickly returning to slight panic as he assessed the situation; John looked scandalized and Doctor Who was, for once, being thoroughly ignored. Greg coughed lightly.   
“A month...”  
John gaped and pointed at him, disbelieving.  
“You...you hid this from Sherlock for a MONTH!? How the hell...”  
Greg grinned to himself and waved his phone.  
“Mycroft is very good at covering his tra- don't WINCE! Oh shit.” Greg vaulted over the sofa once more, landing in front of John. He took a step back, his face pleading, his hands clasped together and his phone protruding jaggedly from the gap between them.   
“You can't tell Sherlock.”  
John shook his head quickly and turned away.  
“No way, I'm shit at keeping secrets. I'm not getting burdened with this, no way.”  
Greg ran round John to face him, hurrying every way that he turned, the same look of pleading annoyance decorating his features.   
“John, you CAN'T tell him. Its not even my fault you know! But you just HAD to nick my phone didn't you?”  
“Ugh, I wish I hadn't now.”  
Greg punched him playfully on the shoulder.   
“Piss off. But John, I will never forgive you. Mycroft will kidnap you and throw you to the wolves. You can't tell Sherlock!”  
John looked at Greg. Did Mycroft have wolves? John wasn't sure, but he was certain that Mycroft would have a dozen undercover ways to procure a pack of wolves to devour an army doctor who couldn't keep his mouth shut.   
“Uh...FINE.”  
Greg's hands clasped tighter.   
“Thanks.”   
The two men looked at each other, not quite sure what to say next. John was curious about this, but he didn't really want to ask. He wasn't really sure if he wanted to know, if the texts were anything to go by. Greg shuffled slightly, wondering exactly which texts John had seen and silently hoping he'd had the foresight to delete a certain few.   
“...Well...Doctor Who?”  
Greg nodded quickly and they hurried back to their seats, focusing all of their attention on the screen, both deciding they didn't really want to discuss what had occurred. They retreated to their beers and prawn crackers, laughing and joking more and more as the episode went along and the time passed. But neither of them had forgotten. Greg felt the sharp niggling at the back of his mind, the worry that John would run to Sherlock and tell him everything, the way Sherlock would react, the disappointed look that Mycroft would shoot him, knowing that he was the one who fucked it all up. John was just perturbed. Mycroft and Greg? Didn't make sense. Mycroft was so...weird and tall and a complete bloody genius. Whereas Greg was just a normal bloke who drank beer and watched Doctor Who. Two guys like that would n...at this point, John felt that his brain was no longer applying this rule to Greg and Mycroft, and thus quickly changed the subject. As John waved Greg goodbye, he wondered how the hell he was going to keep this from Sherlock, and what Sherlock would think when he inevitably found out.

“Something to say, John?”  
John looked up from his newspaper as Sherlock turned from the window, his violin still resting under his chin, his dressing gown fluttering as he twirled.   
“Nothing at all. What are you on about?”  
Sherlock placed the violin delicately in the chair and strode towards John, looming over him in a way that John found intensely annoying.   
“I can deduce it,or you can make it easier by telling me. Your choice.”  
John bit his lip. Fucks sake. He'd known for a day and Sherlock could already figure out that he was hiding something. John felt like a fool for even entertaining the thought that he might be able to keep this from the consulting detective. But he felt morally obliged to keep his promise to Greg, if Sherlock figured it out then it wasn't his fault, but he point blank refused to tell him.   
“Nothing.”  
Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes before sinking into the chair across from John, removing his violin and placing it on the floor. He steepled his long white fingers and fixed his blue eyes on John, scanning him, deducing him. John shuffled. He was probably giving everything away. Sherlock could probably see a speck of dust on his shoes that just screamed of a hidden relationship between his brother and the DI.   
“Stop it.”  
Sherlock leant back in the chair, his fingers drumming, a habit that he had picked up from Moriarty, and one that both irritated and comforted John. It reminded him that Sherlock had beaten the criminal mastermind, whilst simultaneously drawing out painful memories of his existence.   
“You tensed. When I mentioned my brother inviting me to Christmas dinner again, your shoulders tensed, a sign of discomfort. Obviously something to do with him then. Recent, because I mentioned him yesterday morning and there was no similar reaction. He hasn't abducted you again because you would have told me, so its something else to do with what you did yesterday that somehow links to my broth-”  
“SHERLOCK. Jesus, take a break. Tea?”  
John stood up abruptly and walked into the kitchen, not wanting Sherlock to see his face in case he give any more away. There was only silence. John sighed and glanced at Sherlock, who was watching him intently from the chair.   
“Tea?”  
“Coffee. Black, two sugars.”  
“I know how you take your coffee.”  
“And I know you're hiding something.”  
John chose to ignore this and returned to the beverages, contemplating firing off a quick text to Greg, explaining that Sherlock was already halfway there. He decided against it, he didn't want his friend thinking that he had let him down so soon. Also, wolves.   
“Lestrade was here yesterday. Or “Greg” as he insists upon being called.”  
John froze. He really, really didn't want to chat about this with Sherlock.  
“Yeah well...Greg is his name.”  
“Hmmm.”  
Sherlock steepled his fingers once more, John could almost hear the cogs turning, the infernal man was one step away from knowing.   
“What about that case? That your brother gave you?”  
Sherlock looked up.   
“Oh. Yes. Boring. He's left the files here, obviously under the mistaken impression that the sight of them will convince me to take the case.”  
John rolled his eyes, secretly glad that the subject had been successfully changed, he was tired of thinking he was on the brink of blurting everything out, he didn't like not telling Sherlock things. Not only was there no point, but it felt like he HAD to tell him. John shrugged and took a sip of his tea, wondering if Mrs Hudson had any biscuits. 

Later that day, John was happily sitting in his chair, absentmindedly watching the news and wondering where Sherlock had gone off to, when a disgusted cry ripped through the homeliness.   
“I AM SCARRED, MYCROFT. MY EYES ARE BURNING, I WILL NEVER RECOVER. I SUGGEST BOTH YOU AND LESTRADE NEVER, EVER COME NEAR ME AGAIN LEST I KILL YOU.”  
Oh God. John switched the news off and hurried over to the window. Sherlock was shouting down the phone, pacing in agitated circles, gesticulating wildly. Passers by were avoiding him like the plague, understandable since he was screaming about killing people. He glanced up and saw John at the window, glared and hung up. Moments later, Sherlock was in the flat, his coat billowing behind him as he charged in.  
“You knew. Why didn't you TELL me?”  
“Greg told me not to! Since Mycroft's told you, its all fine, right?”  
Sherlock froze, creased his pacing and swiveled round to face John, his face ashen.  
“Mycroft didn't TELL me. I broke into his house to return the files and- ARGH.”   
Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa and rolled around a bit, muttering about deep psychological scarring.  
“So...hang on. OH. Shit!”  
John began to laugh hysterically, earning him a glare and a threat of jumper burning from Sherlock who was bemoaning the fact that instead of simply being told, he had witnessed what he called a “demonstration.” At this point, John was having difficulty controlling his face.   
“That's quite funny.”  
“It was NOT funny. I obviously was extremely disturbed, Greg decided that hiding was the best option and Mycroft chose THIS as the time to ask me if I was coming to Christmas dinner. Which GREGORY will be attending, by the way.”  
Sherlock buried his face in a cushion and let out a princess like wail, causing an eruption of laughter from John. Suddenly, John's phone rang. He shot Sherlock a look and answered, wandering into the kitchen so as to muffle the sound.  
“Hello?”  
“John, its Greg. Shit...I don't know whether to laugh or cry.”  
“Laugh.”  
The two men began laughing madly as Greg recounted how Sherlock had opened the door shouting about case files, staggered backwards and almost run into a wall in his attempts to escape the vicinity.   
“It was so funny mate, not at the time of course. His FACE.”  
“He's fine with it though, seriously. Apart from being scarred and all that.”  
Greg began laughing.   
“Mycroft's glaring at me for telling you everything. I'd better go. Well...you know.”  
Greg abruptly hung up and John shook his head in disbelief. He walked back into the living room to check on Sherlock, still unable to picture Mycroft being anything less than his polished, intimidating self. Sherlock was sipping coffee and blinking furiously, trying to erase images from his brain.   
“Greg told me you ran into a wall.”  
Sherlock let out a exasperated noise and flopped back on the sofa, glaring slightly.  
“Well wouldn't you have done the same thing?”  
“Yeah...probably,”John said as he collapsed onto the sofa next to Sherlock.  
“I wonder what you look like, running into a wall.”  
“Rather amusing, according to Lestrade.”  
“I'll bet," John exhaled as he spoke, he hadn't realised he was so tired. The drama and yelling had broken his peaceful afternoon, although he didn't appreciate them as much as he used to. Once you got a taste for danger, it was hard to go back.   
"Did you end up returning the case files?" Sherlock gestured to the pile on the table with a roll of his eyes, reprimanding John for being so unobservant.  
"Are you going to take them?"  
"One of them is vaguely interesting," Sherlock was more intrigued by the cases than he let on, it had taken a while for John to pick up on his subtle signs, but now he had no problem noticing when Sherlock found a case to his liking. Suddenly the detective sprung from his seat, his feet hitting the floor with a bang.  
"Ohh! Oh yes!" Sherlock placed his fingers to his temples and paced around on the wooden boards, his eyes quickly widening as he muttered to himself. John sat and watched him intently, a reaction that he had developed after many months of seeing Sherlock come to miraculous conclusions out of the blue. It would all make sense once the other man explained his method of course, but until then, John would just have to wait. Sherlock quickly shrugged his long coat on and whipped his scarf around his neck, still speaking at a speed that almost didn't seem possible. He swung the door of the flat open with a casual flick of his pale hand.  
"Coming, John?"   
"Always."


End file.
